


Happy Little Prompts

by Umbrella_ella



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: F/F, coffee shop AU, don't look at me, honestly i'm having fun playing with the prompts, i am not bob ross despite the title, it's late and i'm tired and it sounded funny, makes Cat go vroom vroom, motorcyclist!Kara, tumblr prompt fills, which will change once my brain functions again
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-08-27 12:17:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8401381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Umbrella_ella/pseuds/Umbrella_ella
Summary: Despite the glasses, Kara Danvers is not, in fact, blind. In which Cat is very pretty and Kara is very in love and they're just both giant dorks. Various prompt fills from my tumblr, a-tardis-at-downton.





	1. That Coffee Shop AU

**Author's Note:**

> This is all just ridiculously fluffy. And gay, very gay. 
> 
> "Supercat Prompt: the coffee shop AU that everyone keeps talking about. Kara working at Noonan's before applying at CatCo and she meets all of Cat's previous assistants when they go in to order Cat's latte. And at some point she meets Cat herself when she goes in to get her own coffee and Kara already knows her order"

Pinstriped Misogynist lasts exactly three weeks, and despite how efficient he’d seemed at the start, using awful pick-up lines on the girls at the counter is not what Kara Danvers deems as a successful Career Move™ as Cat Grant’s assistant.

The next week, a frazzled redhead comes barrelling in at half past eight panicking because she’s a newbie and no one has told her that Cat Grant arrives every morning at exactly 8:15. Of course, Kara is at the ready, fresh extra hot latte in hand and a sympathetic smile on her face.

The redheaded woman, Laura, lasts only three days longer than Pinstriped Misogynist before she too is gone, which is a pity, because Kara has definitely been practicing scribbling out her number on one of the to go cups. But fate, it seems, has other plans.

It’s early November, and the temperature is dropping rapidly, just in time for people to break out jeans and light sweaters. Even here in California, sunny National City can get a little cold. So, it’s no surprise that Kara is behind the counter, quickly shedding her thick cardigan stained an ugly dark color that makes Kara twist her lips into a rare frown– _thanks, Espresso machine_ – when _she_ walks in.

The people of Noonan’s have seen Cat Grant once and exactly once in the last five years. There’s a reason for that, and it’s not pretty. Or at least, according to the rumors. Kara Danvers likes to believe in rational reasons for behavior, likes to believe that everyone has their bad days, and their good days. It seems, though, that Cat Grant has too many of the former and not enough of the latter, at least where her assistants are concerned.

Her heels click to a stop at the register, and Kara accidentally knocks over the carafe of fresh brew with her elbow. Skirting the mess, cheeks reddening with embarrassment, Kara thinks she might just go in the back and die after this.

Cat Grant is impeccable, her hair tossed precisely over her shoulders, and her purse hanging delicately from her wrist. The blue dress she wears is probably worth more than what Kara makes in a year, not that she’s looking all that hard at the way the material clings to the jut of her collarbone, because that would be _really_ inappropriate.

Okay, she _looks_ , but only for a few seconds.

“I’ll have the-”

“Coming right up, Ms. Grant.” Kara says, tapping a few buttons on the register that will ensure the latte is credited to the correct tab.

Kara hides her face behind the machine, expertly pouring shots and milk and pops the lid on the coffee before Cat can make it to the pick up counter.

She pretends not to notice the way Cat stares at her with wide eyes, alarmed, if not mildly offended, by her terse reply.

She takes the cup directly from Kara’s hand, and Kara stiffens, the brush of Cat’s pinky against her forefinger sending her heart into overdrive. Green eyes stare sharply at her as lips purse and she brings the coffee to her lips, appraising the barista over the rim.

One long sip later, and Kara is too distracted by the way Cat’s throat works as she swallows, the movement somewhat obscured by the high neck of the dress she wears, to notice Cat’s lips part in wonder.

“It’s you?” she says, and Kara grins, cheeks bunching beneath the thick frames of her glasses, “ _You_ put in the honey on Mondays.“

Cat’s eyes sparkle, and Kara’s smile gets impossibly, _ridiculously_ wider, and Cat hums low in her throat, and a ghost of a smile stretches her pout into a smirk.

Kara’s glad she wrote her number on the cup for Cat to discover later, even it is a little cliche, and when Cat leaves the restaurant with an extra sway in her hips, Kara _definitely_ dies right then and there.


	2. Vroom Vroom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is mildly NSFW. It's pretty short and pretty gay. Enjoy. 
> 
> Anonymous asked: "Supercat discussion involving Kara and her motorcycle"
> 
> (This may or may not be because I really appreciate anyone who rocks leather.)

“ _You_ own a motorcycle?” Cat stares at her, green eyes wide and alight with… well, things that Kara will not think about at work _thankyouverymuch_.

“Yes,” Kara replies, helmet lodged beneath her arm carefully, “does that bother you?”

Kara knows it’s a ridiculous question, she knows the answer because she’d seen the look on Cat’s face when she shook out her hair from beneath the helmet this morning, but she wants Cat to admit what they both know.

“You know it doesn’t, _Kara_ ,“ Cat purrs, saying her name the way she knows makes Kara want to fall to her knees and just beg, and Cat’s moving in close, so close that Kara is reminded of the last time they’d been this close, of how Cat had nipped and bit and dragged her teeth across the side of her neck, and now her heart is beating so fast and Kara can’t breathe.

Cat fingers the lapel of Kara’s jacket, tracing her forefinger down to where Kara’s chest is hidden beneath layers of fabric, the scratch of her nail across the smooth leather almost audible, eyes sharp and daring and pupils blown wide with lust.

Kara only remembers how to breathe when Cat moves past her, plucking the late-night latte from Kara’s hand, striding into her office, a silent cue that Kara follows effortlessly. They’re the only ones on the floor at this time of night, they always are, but Kara feels a modicum of relief when they enter the haven of Cat’s office.

The glass door whispers shut and Cat turns, hands planted firmly on the desk, watching as Kara advances, stopping short of the chairs on the other side.

“In fact,” Cat continues, “it turns me on. It makes me wonder how good your control is. Whether you can ride it after I _fuck_ you on it without thinking about my head between your thighs. Whether you’ll be able to feel it beneath you without thinking about my fingers, my mouth…”

Kara knows this is dangerous, knows that they’re breaking all of their professional, at-work rules. Kara also doesn’t care.

Grabbing Cat’s hand, she tugs her around the desk, out of her office, and towards Cat’s personal elevator.

Cat grins, feral and predatory, and Kara swallows thickly.


	3. Fair Trade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wrote smut… Specifica*lly, barista!Kara smut, designed as a (sort of) followup to the first chapter. I would read that first if you haven’t already. Rated M for sexual content and language. NSFW.

She isn’t quite sure how she got here— okay, so she _knows_ how she got here, she’s not stupid— because this is a violation of every health and safety regulation she’d ever been trained on, plus the hundred she hasn’t seen that are kept in glossy sleeves in a binder behind the manager’s desk. But then again, Kara isn’t really focused on those. 

Instead, Cat Grant’s head is between her legs, and her mouth is doing _amazing_ things, and Jesus Christ, her lungs are on fire and she can’t quite catch her breath. There’s liquid heat running through her veins and Kara Danvers is very sure that _this_ has never felt so good.

Of course, a lot of things are made better by the simple fact that it’s Cat Grant who does them— the way coffee is sipped, the way lipstick is reapplied in the reflection of the napkin holder, the way said lipstick blots onto a napkin, the way it feels on Kara’s thighs and— Oh, _oh,_ Kara’s fingers curl, gripping hard around the edges of the shelf, and she looks down in time to see Cat’s eyes meet hers, her nails biting into Kara’s thighs and she pulls her mouth away, lips glistening.

“Come, _Kiera,_ ” she whispers, and it’s throaty and full and Cat twists her fingers just right, finding just the right amount of pressure and Kara is cresting, breaking, and she’s splitting at the seams, because Cat Grant has officially fucked her into oblivion.

When she sags against the shelf, Kara’s sure she _looks_ like she’s just been fucked— of course she does, her work issue slacks around her ankles and her underwear torn along the side seam, Cat still kneeling at her spread feet, looking polite and proper as ever, green eyes blinking up as she daintily slides her fingers from her mouth with a _pop_ , lipstick smudged along her chin. Cat stands, her skirt bunched around her hips, her underwear behind her somewhere. Kara thinks she tossed them between the dark roast Arabica and the French presses on the second shelf. Fumbling around, she plucks the red lace— red _fucking_ lace— from between a bag of beans and a press and hands them over to Cat, who stuffs them in her clutch.

At Kara’s raised eyebrow, Cat glares, eyes steely and narrow, and she says, “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say a word, Miss Grant,” Kara grins, pulling up her pants and grimacing at the uncomfortable sodden mess that her underwear have become.

“Good,” Cat clips out, and with that, she pads her way out to the bar, where her heels are resting on a stool around the front, and Kara watches her as she goes, watches the way her dress pulls taut around her ass when she bends to reapply her lipstick in the reflection of the napkin holder. When the bell attached to the door frame signals that she’s gone, Kara sighs, staring at the mop and bucket.

Somehow, cleaning doesn’t quite have the same appeal as fucking Cat Grant in the stockroom, but then, she doubts anything could be appealing after that.

* * *

Her phone chirps just when she’s finishing up the last order of the day, and really, she shouldn’t have it on the floor, let alone be checking it, but Hank, the new manager, doesn’t particularly care one way or another, so long as his employees are doing their jobs, which really, after the terrible management of Tracy, is a blessing.

_Delivery to my office, ten minutes. Chop, chop._

Cat Grant, by all rights, should be considered a public menace, because Kara has been daydreaming about that stupid, super ridiculous, amazing thing she did with her tongue last night when Kara was pressed against Hank’s office door. She can’t even look in that general direction without remembering the way Cat’s lips had felt on her own afterwards, the one and _only_ time Cat had ever kissed her. She had tasted herself and dark roast and the sweetness that was all Cat, and she’d do it again in a heartbeat.

She doesn’t think about what that means.  

Kara blushes fiercely through the remaining five minutes of her shift, so much so that Winn repeatedly asks if she’s okay, to which she replies by squeaking out nonsensical gibberish, which includes a great deal of fumbling with her glasses.

Finally, the cool January air bites through her thin cardigan as she rushes down the sidewalk and towards the warmth of the CatCo lobby, one steaming latte in hand. The elevator ride is slow and long, the tinny music filtering through subpar speakers that crackle every now and again, and Kara wonders if this is some form of medieval torture, and decides she would much prefer a stretching rack to the terrible, overdone cheery Christmas music.

She wonders vaguely if Cat will listen if she asks her to consider changing it.

Probably not.

The elevator finally shudders to a stop, and Kara stumbles out, eager to escape The Elevator From Hell, and straight into the bullpen. Quiet and eerily calm, especially since Kara has been here when the floor was in full swing, the bullpen is dead, save for the glass office at the end of the floor which is still lit by a solitary lamp. Kara knows what she’ll find there, or rather who— she makes no guesses as to what she’ll find there, she has learned in the weeks since she and Cat have begun this _thing_ that it’s safer not to predict Cat’s behavior— and she licks her lips in anticipation.

She sees Cat at her desk, gaze trained on her monitor, fingers deftly crafting whatever it is Cat writes these days, though Kara’s sure it’s a termination letter, from the way her fingers are flying and the way she pauses occasionally to stab angrily at the keyboard, finger firm and unforgiving.

Kara huffs out a breath and steps into Cat Grant’s office in one swift motion, the door gliding shut with a soft _thump_ behind her. The coffee is still hot, steam curling out of the small hole in the lid, and Cat lets out an appreciative sigh at the sight.

Kara moves to hand Cat the latte, shoes sinking into the plush white rug that covers the expanse of what Kara’s sure is carpet worth more than five paychecks. She absently wonders what it’s like, to live in a world where one doesn’t look at price, let alone touch a sales rack. But that, she supposes, is exactly what Cat does.

“Kiera,” Cat snaps, eyes narrowing behind cat-eye glasses, flicking to the clock on her desk, “you’re late.”

Kara swallows, “I’m— I know.”

Green eyes bore into blue; Kara swallows again, mouth dry and tongue like lead.

Cat’s lips curl into a sneer, and though it’s directed at Kara, she can’t help the way her heart thunders in her chest at the sight.

“Don’t let it happen again. I understand that I don’t pay you, but I was under the impression that this wasn’t something I needed to pay for, that this arrangement was equally satisfyi—”

In retrospect, interrupting Cat Grant is Mistake Number One of the night, but Kara does it instinctually, needing Cat to understand, to _know_ that this is not about money, that this attraction, this blistering heat that roils within her at the sight of Cat, is no less than absolutely enjoyable for her.

So, she kisses her.

It’s awkward and messy, and maybe a little too firm and her knees press into the edge of the desk uncomfortably, but it’s worth it just to hear the small whine that Cat lets out, and then, oh _god_ — her hands are in Kara’s hair, pulling closer, and Kara stumbles around the desk, backing Cat into the plush, raised-back swivel chair and she’s bending at an awkward angle to chase the kiss, her tongue sweeping along the seam of Cat’s lips, tasting every inch of her.

Kara drops to her knees because it’s easier this way, to kneel at Cat’s feet as though she’s a goddess, and really she is, because when Kara pulls away to look at Cat, and sees the way her lips are reddened and kiss-swollen and her perfect hair is mussed from the way Kara had tugged at it, Kara thinks she should build her a monument, and— oh, she’s in too deep and this is all too much and she’s _in_ _love_ with Cat Grant and it makes her stomach drop to her knees, but Cat pulls her in again.

Greedy fingers pull and push and grab at Cat’s skirt, rucking the expensive, soft fabric up smooth, pale thighs, palms massaging as Cat kisses her again, forceful and wanting and Kara is fully prepared to give this woman anything and everything she can. She kisses back, and draws her fingers to the apex of Cat’s thighs where she’s warm and wet and _wanting._ Kara lets out a stuttered breath against warm lips, and Cat fills the silence.

“Feel something you like, _Kara_?” she whispers in that low husk and Cat knows what sort of power she has over Kara, she _has_ to, because the sound of Kara’s name on her lips is nothing short of pure bliss.

Kara nods sharply and Cat smiles in reply, shifting to widen her thighs to accommodate, and Kara knows, understands where this is going. Cat Grant has her own language, in a way, and Kara has become well versed in its nuances in the few weeks they’ve been at this.

Kara teases her, feeling the way the damp fabric grows wetter when she ghosts her lips along the skin of her thighs, dipping her tongue to the already trembling flesh to taste, and finally, finally, when Cat’s knuckles are white and her fingers are clutching the armrests impossibly tight, Kara gives in. She pushes the underwear down and lowers her mouth to Cat’s waiting sex.

Kara pushes in with one, two fingers, the silk-smooth feel of Cat heaven at her fingertips, and she dips out her tongue, working around Cat’s clit, eager to taste, eager to tease. Cat’s sharp, stuttered breaths are short and quick, indicating that she’s already halfway there, really, and Kara’s a little proud at the thought of it.

“ _Ngggh,_ Kara, _more,_ ” Cat says, breathy and high, and Kara is nothing if not obedient.

She pushes three fingers into Cat, her tongue still working at her clit, licking relentlessly, and she feels Cat tremble above her, feels the strain in her thighs, the quake in her muscles as Kara pumps her fingers in and out, working her tongue in time with the movement of her hand. She’s beautiful like this, Kara thinks, head thrown back, eyes slammed shut, perfectly made up mouth askew and parted, those little gasps and sighs escaping her in huffs of breath.

Cat cries out her release, hips arching against Kara’s face, pushing impossibly closer, needy and wanton, and Kara hisses at the way Cat’s nails bite into the skin of her shoulders, somewhere between pain and pleasure and she thinks she could do this forever.

When Cat is boneless and sated in her chair, looking smaller than before— it doesn’t make her _less,_ but rather _more_ , more human, as if Kara might manage to touch her and not get burned— Kara stands, wincing when her knees pop.

Apparently, pricey carpet is still not fantastic on the knees.

Kara shifts to hand Cat her latte then, but Cat grabs at her fingers instead, drawing them close and— oh. She sucks at them, shooting Kara an unnecessarily sexy look that makes Kara wetter than she was to begin with.

“Your latte, Miss Grant,” Kara manages, and stuffs her hand into her pocket when Cat releases her fingers, just barely resisting wiping them on her pants.

“Delicious,” she hums into the cup, and Kara knows that look, green eyes glinting and daring, but she can’t, not tonight, not _now_. Not anymore.

Kara moves to the door instead, steps slow and heavy, Cat’s eyes following her suspiciously.

“Good night, Miss Grant.”

She doesn’t get a reply, but then again, she doesn’t expect one.

Kara manages to leave gracefully, for once, and she ignores the way her underwear are uncomfortable against her in favor of contemplating this latest development of Feelings™ to the tune of shitty elevator music instead.

All of this is awful and ridiculous and none of it should ever have happened, but Kara is Icarus and Cat is the sun, and it is too late, because Kara has flown too close.    


End file.
